


Before the Mind Palace

by DaringlyDomestic



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-26 17:54:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6249718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock always loved knowledge. Loved categorizing, organizing, storing it. He used to store it all in beautifully bound notebooks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Before the Mind Palace, Sherlock had the notebooks. Stacks and stacks of multi-colored cross-referenced spiral-bound notebooks filled with “the things that really matter.” Sitting cross-legged on the floor of his bedroom, he would spend hours transcribing all of the important facts he learned that day. Knowledge is key and Sherlock was determined not to forget a single fact. 

Mycroft found him once. Sherlock remembers it vividly. He had been copying the maritime habits of the world’s most feared pirate. Mycroft had snatched up the notebook and read the few painstakingly transcribed lines.  His eyes shifted to Sherlock when he finished and he laughed. Not the gentle, brotherly affection Sherlock was so used to. It was a deep rough guffaw that sliced right through Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock remembers words like _infantile, stupid, nonsensical clutter_. 

After Mycroft left, he spent hours carefully removing all the _rubbish_ from the notebooks. He tore the pages from the books in smooth clean lines. By early morning, he was surrounded by piles and piles of loose-leaf nonsense. He wanted to burn them, but Mummy caught him lighting a fire in a grate. She took them from him and he did not think about them again. 

Sherlock spent the next several months perfecting his Mind Palace technique. Sure, he had all of the notebooks lined on shelves in his bedroom, but he rarely needed to flip through them to remember important facts. They’re only filled with cold, hard, reasonable science anyway. When he goes away to Uni, he leaves them all behind.

 

* * *

 

 

When Mummy and Daddy die, Mycroft makes Sherlock come out to their old house. He insists on going through their possessions personally. Sherlock thinks it is a waste of time, but John agrees to come with him. They have not been here since the disastrous Magnussen affair and the ghosts of that Christmas linger in long hallways and dark corners. 

Several hours later, they have boxed and organized most of the rooms. Mummy and Daddy were never hoarders and their house is warm but sparsely decorated. The attic holds very little and Sherlock lets Mycroft sit in the kitchen nursing his bourbon. Somehow this place feels sacred. A place for Sherlock alone. John waits for him in the same chair Mary sat in all those years ago. He loves Sherlock and would do anything for him, but he hopes they can leave soon. This place has too many memories he would rather forget. 

It only takes Sherlock twenty minutes to catalogue the rest of the items. He lifts the lid on the last dusty cardboard box and waves of nostalgia roll over him. Page after torn page sit nestled together in the box. On the very top is a crayon drawing of a massive ship fighting the tumultuous waves while the brave and true Captain Redbeard stands behind the wheel. The stacks are tied loving together with blue ribbon. 

Sherlock takes out each stack and riffles carefully through them. How had he forgotten all of this? When he lifts the last stack. A crinkled piece of yellow-lined paper sits on the very bottom of the box. Sherlock carefully withdraws it and smooths it under his palm. In faded pen, Sherlock can barely make out Mummy’s elegant scrawl. 

_Oh my love. You’re heart is so big that you don’t know what to do with it. It’s easier now to lock it away. I understand. But one day, one day you will want to remember, and I am your mother. I have always kept it safe. It is time to return it to you._  

Sherlock loving lays the note back on top of the pile and replaces the lid. Everything in this house will go to charity. Sherlock certainly doesn’t want it. Well, everything except for this box. Sherlock will take this box to Baker St. It is time for this box to come home. 


	2. Back to the Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 based on the Musgrave Ritual. Part of a prompt from @may-shepard.

John stares in bewildered amusement as Sherlock carefully prepares and pastes sample cuttings into his commonplace book. _Who even has a commonplace book anymore?_ John switches on the kettle and chuckles. Without looking up, Sherlock sighs. "Not everything can be recorded with paper and ink, John. Some things are meant to be catalogued, observed, touched." John stands and watches the dust flutter delicately around Sherlock's wild curls as he leans in close to arrange the hyacinth cutting just so. The man amazes him every day. John stands barefoot in their kitchen leaning against the countertop. The kettle boils, switches off, goes cold, and still John stands, transfixed by the graceful slope of Sherlock's shoulders, the gentle sweep of his fingers, the rhythmic bounce of his curls.

Pasting the final clipping, Sherlock rolls his neck and stretches his shoulders. He presses his fists to his eyes and pushes back hard from the table. He stomps into the living room to throw himself moodily onto the sofa. He does not so much as acknowledge John. He drapes himself along the soft fabric so dramatically he would rival any dramatic heroine. John refuses to be baited. He bends to add another log to the crackling fire. He wipes the soot from his hands on the backs of his jeans and settles into his armchair. He picks up the daily paper and sets to reading about Manchester United's triumph over Chelsea. Sherlock wriggles around on the sofa, trying to draw John's attention. John just raises the paper higher, hiding his face from view. He can never resist smiling at the detective's ridiculous toddler-like behavior.

At a quarter past, Sherlock sighs dramatically and settles into his thinking pose. At half past, his eyes flutter open and he gazes beseechingly at John. John carefully lowers the paper and looks back lovingly but sternly. They hold each other's gaze for several minutes until Sherlock breaks. "John," he whines. "This is unbearable! When's the next case? Get me one! I need one!" John realizes that Sherlock is quickly moving from bored to manic. He decides to cut Sherlock off before he can work himself up into a truly terrifying panic. He carefully folds the paper, sets it on the side table, and leans forward resting his elbows on his knees as he focuses fully on his flatmate. "You know, if you're really that bored you might think about clearing out some of this clutter." Sherlock glowers and John can feel the storm coming on. Sherlock opens his mouth but John talks quickly, "I just mean, it would be nice to be able to find your cases when I need them as references for my blog, love." Sherlock knows John is just appeasing him but he can't suppress the little flare of happiness that lights his chest at the thought of John caring so much about his cases. He rolls his eyes but smirks affectionately as he rolls off the sofa. He walks dejectedly to his room but pecks John on the cheek as he passes.

After several minutes, Sherlock emerges from his room with a large metal key. He kneels in front of the ornate steamer trunk nestled next to the bookshelf. John turns to watch with fascination, he has never seen Sherlock unlock this trunk. The trunk gives a loud click as Sherlock unlocks it. He eases the lid open and reaches inside. He withdraws an old cardboard box. Sherlock carries it over and places it next to John's chair. He kneels in the "V" of John's legs and places his hands softly on John's thighs. He looks at John with unguarded warmth. John reaches out and cups Sherlock's face with his palm. "What's in the box?" Sherlock opens it, and John can see that it is filled with bundles of paper tied up with blue ribbon into separate packages. "These may not be as exciting or as clever as the recountings of my detective work but…" Sherlock looks down and licks his lips nervously. John's heart flutters at the sight. He has been dying to see the contents of this box since they brought it home from Sherlock's parents' house. John's hand combs soothingly through Sherlock's curls. He wraps his fingers around Sherlock's skull and tips it back to force Sherlock to meet his gaze. Sherlock's eyes are open and vulnerable. John can see the anxiety and fear, but he can also see the hope flickering underneath it all. John smiles and waits for Sherlock to go on. He breathes out deeply and draws his shoulders up, "…but these.." he gestures at the papers, "…these just may mean more to me than all those cases put together." John's fingers stop moving. "What are they?" he asks with breathless wonder _. What could possibly mean more to Sherlock than his beloved casework?_ A private smile flits across Sherlock's face. "It's me, John. Before I was this. Before I had my mind palace." Sherlock rests his bum on his ankles and John's mind races. Sherlock never talks about his past, not willingly. John can barely see the topmost paper, but he is almost positive he can make out a crayon-drawing. _Are these from Sherlock's childhood?_  

"Yes, John," Sherlock answers the unasked question. "When I was five years old, Mycroft read me a book about bees. I was _enthralled_. I stayed up all night writing down everything I could remember about hives, behaviors, and social hierarchies." Sherlock's eyes are bright with excitement and John's heart constricts at the unbridled happiness he sees there. "I made Mycroft re-read that book for days until I was sure I had recorded every important detail. I filled an entire notebook that first week, and Mycroft refused to ever read that book again. After that, everywhere I went, I had a notebook in tow. By the next year, I had shelves full of notebooks. Bound volumes containing all the information most precious and dear to my heart." Sherlock's fingers sweep absently over the ribbon as he continues. "The summer after Mycroft went away to school, he came home and found me working away at my desk. I had just read a lengthy history of Redbeard, the most dreaded pirate to ever sail the high seas, and was trying to make note of every last detail. He laughed and told me what a waste of time that was. He insisted that I should be focusing on more practical things, things that would contribute to the future I hoped to build for myself." Sherlock's face turns sad. "I was six." John takes Sherlock's hand and squeezes it reassuringly. Sherlock sniffles but continues, "I was so upset. I tore out all the pages and tried to burn them in the fireplace, but Mummy caught me." Tears trickle out from underneath Sherlock's long lashes. "I thought she got rid of it all for me, but…" he takes a calming breath and leans against John, seeking comfort. "She kept them all, safely stowed away in the attic, waiting. I found them when we went back to clear it out." John winds his arm around Sherlock's shoulders anchoring him close. He presses his lips to soft curls and pulls Sherlock in tighter.

After a few minutes of peaceful companionship, Sherlock draws back. He looks at John in anticipation. "Do you want to see?" he asks hopefully. John smiles a wide, genuine thing that stretches across his entire face. "I really, really do." He joins Sherlock on the floor and leans against the leg of his chair. Sherlock settles between his legs and pulls the box closer. John rests his chin on Sherlock's shoulder and watches as Sherlock unties the first bundle. They sit that way for hours. The night passes as Sherlock explains complicated diagrams written in faded and smudged crayon. Sherlock is more forthcoming than ever and tells story after story. John soaks it all in and rewards each revelation with soft touches and a warm, gentle press of lips on smooth skin.

The rising sun finds Sherlock fast asleep, head tilted back to rest on John's shoulder. John knows it will give him hell later, but he can't bring himself to rouse Sherlock. He is beautiful in the cold grey light of dawn. His face is smooth and unguarded in sleep. John's fingers are intertwined with Sherlock's where they rest on his thighs. A crinkled drawing of Captain Redbeard is still clutched in the detective's long nimble fingers. This is how they're meant to be, John is sure of it. Open and trusting, twined together, and deeply in love.


End file.
